


Peregrina

by Remeinhu



Series: These Fragile Bodies [8]
Category: Six - Marlow/Moss
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anne the brilliant cook, Cancer, Comfort Food, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Food Porn, Gen, Medical Conditions, Medical Procedures, Menstruation, Vomiting, skin picking/dermatillomania
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27218836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Remeinhu/pseuds/Remeinhu
Summary: When Catalina begins showing worrisome symptoms, Cathy, Jane, and the rest of the queens must push her to take them seriously.
Relationships: Anne Boleyn & Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn/Catherine Parr, Anne of Cleves/Katherine Howard, Catherine Parr & Jane Seymour, Catherine of Aragon & Anne of Cleves, Catherine of Aragon & Catherine Parr, Catherine of Aragon & Jane Seymour, Catherine of Aragon/Jane Seymour (FWB)
Series: These Fragile Bodies [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1800094
Comments: 45
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before anyone freaks out--I solemnly swear Catalina will be all right in the end!
> 
> CN for gynecological symptoms.

“Catalina,” said Cathy one morning, with her usual lack of preamble, “you look thinner.”

With an abrupt _thunk_ Catalina set down the mug of coffee she’d been preparing and fixed her goddaughter with an arch stare. “Catherine Parr, what are the house rules about commenting on _anyone’s_ weight?”

“I don’t mean it like that. I mean you look _worryingly_ thinner.” Cathy grimaced. “You look like you’ve dropped nearly a stone inside six weeks. Precipitous weight changes in any direction are usually a sign of trouble.”

Catalina sighed sharply and turned her attention back to her pourover. “Mija, I appreciate both the concern and the information—of which I _was_ already aware, thank you—but I’m absolutely fine. You know we’ve had a punishing show schedule lately, and stress tends to blunt my appetite.”

“Not this much, it doesn’t. I think you should see Dr. Lewis.”

“I’m _fine_. You know I’m religious about my screenings.”

“Screenings don’t catch everything, and it’s been nearly a year.”

“And I will do my next annual screenings when they come around!”

“Catty, this doesn’t seem like a ‘wait for your screening’ thing! I’m worried something is really wrong!” She realized belatedly that she was speaking too loudly, but her control over her voice was slipping.

“And I’m telling you it isn’t.”

Cathy set her jaw. “You can’t know that.”

“It’s _my_ body.”

“And you still can’t—” Cathy felt herself starting to panic, but Catalina cut her off.

“Catherine Parr, _stop_.”

“But—"

“This conversation is over.” Catalina grabbed her coffee and strode out of the kitchen.

Cathy sat down and banged on the table in frustration, feeling her chest tighten and hot tears pool behind her eyelids. She’d been worried about Catalina for months now, ever since she’d had a series of periods so heavy and painful the rest of the house couldn’t help but notice. She knew, however, that her nagging the other queens about their health wasn’t always well-received and so she’d tried, against every inclination she had, to come at it more subtly. Unsurprisingly, it hadn’t worked. Neither, now, had this, and the thought that something could be seriously wrong with her godmother threatened to send her to pieces.

When Anne had had a health scare the previous year, it had come from right out of the blue and startled Cathy so badly she’d had a terrifyingly vivid flashback to her own death from childbed fever. This was different—a series of signs that on their own might have been innocuous on their own but, when considered over time, added up to something deeply worrisome. So she wasn’t concerned about being ambushed by a flashback this time, at least not yet. Instead she felt a gnawing anxiety that ate at the pit of her stomach and made her want to curl in on herself like an armadillo (an animal she’d read about during a Wikipedia deep-dive and identified with almost immediately).

The truth was that while she loved all the queens deeply, she particularly depended on Anne and Catalina, and the idea of losing either of them didn’t just make her despondent—it made her ill and existentially terrified. Anne was her lover, her partner, her support, the person with whom everything in her life was entangled, without whom her existence in this still-new world simply made no sense. Catalina, meanwhile, was her godmother—someone older and wiser who accepted her unreservedly and seemed always to have some degree of perspective that magically made any number of situations less daunting. She was a shoulder to cry on, a wall to brace oneself against.

Anne was animation; Catalina was structure. To lose Anne would be like exsanguination. To lose Catalina would be like losing her skin and bones.

Now she’d been unable to convince her skin and bones they were in danger, and she didn’t know what the hell to do.

___

Catalina, who was deeply rattled by her exchange with Cathy, was distracted enough that she nearly walked right into Jane—who, in turn, was leaning against Catalina’s door with her arms crossed under her chest and a “don’t even try me” expression on her face.

She jumped, spilling some of her coffee. “Good _grief_ , Jane!”

Jane ignored this. “Your goddaughter’s right.”

“How much of that did you overhear?”

“All of it. I’m grateful for Cathy’s bluntness. You’re going to make an appointment with Dr. Landon _now_ , and I won’t leave you alone until I’ve seen you make the call and write the date in your calendar.”

Catalina felt the blood drain from her face. “You said Dr. Landon, not Dr. Lewis. Why are you so sure I need to see the gynecologist?”

“Catalina, _please_. Of course Cathy isn’t in a position to know this, but you can’t possibly expect _I’ve_ failed to notice you’ve been spotting almost constantly for nearly a month—”

“Jane!”

“— _or_ that earlier this year you had several frighteningly heavy periods? _Or_ ,” Jane lowered her voice, “that you haven’t wanted me to do anything to you recently, which would be fine, except it isn’t like you _at all_?”

“Jane, I’ve _always_ been irregular! And I expect it’s about time for this body to be experiencing perimenopause, which can affect—"

“That might explain _some_ spotting, and changes in libido. But not the constant light bleeding. _And_ the unusually heavy periods. _And_ the pelvic pain. _And_ the weight loss.” Jane’s eyes, Catalina noticed, were just a little too shiny. “Cata, I can’t believe _you_ of all people would be so cavalier about what might be—”

“ _Don’t_ say that word.”

“Then _call_.” Jane’s voice broke.

“Are you at least going to let me into my room, or must I literally air my stained knickers to the entire house here in the hallway?”

Jane opened the door. “Fine, but I’m coming in with you.”

True to her word, Jane stood there stone-faced while Catalina called the clinic, clearing her throat pointedly whenever she thought she heard a symptom being downplayed, and double checking that the appointment was in all of Catalina’s calendars as well as her own.

“Do you want me to come along with you?” Catalina could hear a slight tremor in Jane’s voice, and she knew why—Jane was still frightened of doctors’ offices, even as her literacy had improved massively.

“There’s no need for that. I’m perfectly capable of going on my own.”

“Like hell you are.” Jane and Catalina turned to see Anna leaning against the doorframe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Anna confronts Catalina, Cathy deals with the psychological consequences of their encounter and her worry for her godmother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: Moderately graphic depictions of skin-picking.

“Like hell you are.”

Jane and Catalina turned to see Anna leaning against the doorframe.

“Oh, _fantastic._ ” Catalina groaned. “Wonderful. Who in this house _doesn’t_ know all about what _might_ be wrong with my uterus?”

Anna snorted. “Nobody, but _least_ of all me. As if I don’t know intimately what precipitous weight loss and abdominal pain might add up to. Did you _really_ think you were going to get away with hiding potential _cancer_ —yes, I _am_ saying it—symptoms from your death buddy?”

“I suppose it would be rather silly to say ‘no’ now, wouldn’t it?”

Anna didn’t dignify that with a response. “You’ve been there for me when _I’ve_ had flashbacks and phantom pains. Of course I’m going to notice when you’re having real ones.”

“Well, bravo, Inspector Cleves. I see you’re taking lessons from Kitty.”

“Kitty is lovely, but I am also capable of basic inductive reasoning. Regardless, that isn’t really the point. The point is I’m going with you.”

“What if I don’t _want_ anyone to go with me?”

“Tough shit.”

“Anna von Kleve, I am a grown woman _twice_ over, and you do not get to tell me what to—”

“ _Catalina_ de Trastamara y Trastamara de Aragon y Castilla y Inglaterra—and by the way, you really should know better than to try and pull full name ultimatums on _any_ of us with a name like _that_ — _you_ are the beloved matriarch of this house and without you we’d all be in tatters. You’re our wall. You have an obligation to yourself and to the rest of us, _especially_ your goddaughter—whom, not incidentally, you just left on the verge of a meltdown in the kitchen—to take care of yourself!”

“So I made the appointment! What do you want from me, Anna?”

“You’re pretty obviously terrified. If I go with you, someone else can be the wall, for a change.”

Catalina threw up her hands. “ _Fine!_ Come along to my appointment! I’ve heard tell that after the pelvic exam there’ll be a puppet show on the same set! _Bring the popcorn!_ But I promise you I am _fine_!”

“Good. I’ll drive you.” Anna turned, then looked over her shoulder. “And tell yourself whatever you need. But you and I both know different.”

“Out! You too, Jane!” Catalina physically propelled the younger women out the door before flopping onto her bed. As her exasperation waned, however, she started to feel a sick anxiety begin to gnaw at the pit of her stomach.

_Damn it all, why must Anna_ always _be right?!_

___

Cathy, after Jane filled her in on the morning’s events and reassured her that Catalina would be seeing Dr. Landon the following Monday, knew she ought to feel relieved. Instead she felt worse—guilty that _she’d_ been unable to convince her godmother to seek medical attention, and newly anxious about what the visit would reveal. Almost unconsciously she carded her fingers through her hair, worrying at one of the spots on her scalp she never really allowed to fully heal, until she couldn’t stand it anymore, the pain snapping her awake and grounding her. The spot smarted and ached, and she knew the crust of blood and lymph that would form around it would make her itch horribly later, but at least after that she was able to uncurl herself for a little while.

Her skin felt oily and uncomfortable, and though for a time she’d been able, with Anne’s help, to keep the damage to her back and shoulders to a minimum, for the past several weeks she’d been relapsing. Now she found herself compulsively reaching down the back of her shirt, clawing any raised or itchy patch raw and prying away old scabs. When she stripped down to shower, hoping to wash the oily feeling away, she caught sight in the mirror of what she’d done. She was repelled, but she couldn’t help but lean in, and when she saw some sores that looked swollen there was no question of her resisting the urge to squeeze and scratch them open, even where she had to contort herself painfully to reach them.

The relief she got from all this was only momentary, but it was just enough to carry her through the day.

That evening, she was so tense and distracted that Anne quickly gave up on trying to pick up the previous night’s conversation about liturgy and asked if she’d prefer a backrub.

“Maybe.” Cathy shrugged.

“I won’t push you, Cath, but usually some deep pressure does help you a bit. Hm?” She reached out questioningly to Cathy, who didn’t protest when she urged her up, and then shuffled across the room and flopped, prone, onto the bed.

Anne straddled her and began to work, slowly and firmly, on her neck and shoulders. After a moment, she paused. “Can I take this sweater off of you? It’s hard to get at anything through it.”

Cathy groaned, but didn’t protest as Anne eased her arms out of the thick garment and laid it beside her. “This okay?” Anne asked, reaching under her loose flannel shirt, but she stopped when she reached Cathy’s shoulders and felt some wetness and several fresh scabs.

She sighed. “Cath, can I look at your back and shoulders?” At Cathy’s whimper, she added, “Love, you know I do it too. I’m not going to scold you, but if you’re having a flare-up, it might help for me to know about it.”

“Okay, fine,” Cathy mumbled into the pillow. Anne carefully peeled Cathy’s shirt away and pulled her fitted tank top up her back, revealing several inflamed scratches and open sores, and exhaled slowly. “I’m going to go get something to put on this, okay? Sit tight.” She carefully laid Cathy’s weighted blanket over her and darted off, returning several minutes later with two flannels, a small basin of warm water and Epsom salts, and some plasters and antiseptic.

“I’m going to use saltwater on your back, okay?” Anne pulled back the blanket and helped Cathy the rest of the way out of her undershirt before she sat down and began to sponge at her back and shoulders.

Cathy gasped briefly before relaxing into the soothing warmth of the flannel and the sting of the saltwater. It felt bracing and cleansing, as though it were somehow readjusting the tension of her skin and dissolving the oils and flakes that made her itch and claw at it.

Under Anne’s ministrations, she could feel her ability to think clearly begin to return, and she sighed. “I’ve been so worried about Catalina, and I couldn’t make her see reason. Now she _is_ going in, but I’m so worried about what the tests will turn up—I can’t lose anyone else, Anne, I just can’t. Especially not her.” She didn’t have to explain the next bit to Anne— _tearing my skin to pieces feels like the only way I can keep the_ rest _of myself from going to pieces_ —she knew that was something that went, understood, between them without saying.

Anne had switched to the dry flannel and begun rubbing her back down vigorously; now she paused and bent down to kiss her left shoulder, mottled as it was with angry red sores, round, paler patches of scar, and slightly darker patches of melasma.

No matter how many times Anne deliberately kissed her scars, it never failed to make Cathy’s heart utterly melt. (Truth be told, while Anne hated the mosaic of scarring and discoloration on her own skin, she loved it, in a way, on Cathy’s. She loved that her partner’s skin told a story she herself knew all too well).

“Aren’t you grossed out by that?” she asked, even though she knew the answer. “It’s still oozing a bit, even!”

Anne stroked her hair as she kissed her other shoulder. “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Anna's comment about "death buddies" is a reference to the first chapter of "Gynaikeia."
> 
> *That Anne and Cathy are both compulsive skin pickers is established in "This Vibrant Skin" and referenced throughout the series.
> 
> *Re: Anna's riposte of a full name ultimatum: in a kind of half-assed nod to the “Picasso vs. Bob Ross” episode of Epic Rap Battles of History, Anna sort of does the opposite move from what Picasso does, where the second half of his second verse is simply his full name:
> 
> “My name is Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano De la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Picasso! Back...to...you...Bob”
> 
> See here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WGN5xaQkFk0


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catalina visits Dr. Landon, where she gets some unsettling news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: brief, non-graphic vomiting.
> 
> Heavy angst ahoy! 
> 
> (Although on today of all days, I wish I had something more gleeful to post! Regardless, right now I expect the queens and the ladies are in a state of utter glee toasting the occasion on which ANOTHER misogynistic, megalomanical, human-shaped sack of dogshit with no regard for human life is getting his ass handed to him.
> 
> So given my assurance that Catalina will be all right in the end, as you read, perhaps imagine her thanking everything holy that she made it out the other side of everything and is around to celebrate today).
> 
> I'd say watch for the out-of-universe character cameos, but they're so blatant you really can't miss them.

Sitting beside Anna in Dr. Landon’s waiting room, Catalina was determined not to let on any anxiety whatsoever. After all, she told herself, everything was _fine._ She’d go through this charade to assuage whatever cursed hypochondriasis-by-proxy seemed to have beset the rest of them, Dr. Landon would confirm her symptoms were merely typical of perimenopause, they’d all relax (and maybe take her out to an _especially_ nice dinner for all her trouble), and that would be that.

She steadfastly ignored the knots in her stomach (and the twinges in her abdomen, and the fact she was bleeding a just a bit too heavily for the pantyliners she’d normally been using to deal with her spotting), trying instead to concentrate on _The American Way of Death,_ which she’d started the previous week on Kitty’s recommendation.

(“Why on earth would I want to read a book about American _funerals?_ ” she’d asked Kitty in bewilderment.

“Because Jessica Mitford is absolutely _hilarious,_ that’s why,” Kitty replied as she pressed the book into Catalina’s rather reluctant hands. “Just wait until you get to the part where she starts mouthing off to the casket manufacturer about wanting a casket lining in a color that matches the cause of death. Besides which, she was a fascinating figure—one of six sisters from a minor aristocratic family, all of whom were thoroughly sensational in their own way—”

“Six, were there?” Catalina raised an eyebrow.

“Uncanny, isn’t it? At first I was curious to see if their personalities aligned with ours any, but alas, it turns out two of them were actual Nazis. It rather put the damper on my ideas for any sort of crossover fic with the six of us…”

“Crossover fic?” Just then, she remembered something she’d overheard Kitty telling Anna. “Katherine Howard, are you writing fanfiction about us for _strangers_ on the _internet?!”_

Kitty had suddenly remembered an _extremely_ urgent errand and scampered off without responding.

Catalina decided she really didn’t need to know the answer all _that_ badly.)

The book really was incredibly funny, but for some reason she was having an awful time processing it. The quiet conversations in the room all seemed irritatingly clear to her for some reason, and there was one in particular that jumped out at her, perhaps because of the American accents it was happening in. As she tuned in in spite of herself, she realized the accents weren’t the only distinctive thing about it. Both voices sounded female, with low registers and wry twists to them; one was slower and almost monotonal, while the other was quicker, tart and gravelly at once.

She peered furtively across the room. Monotone—a short woman with shoulder-length auburn hair and thick, round, black-framed glasses that gave her an owlish appearance—was speaking:

“Jane, I am _not_ thrilled with the idea of _Jodie_ of all people examining my—”

The gravelly voiced one— _Jane, although she looks_ nothing _like our Jane—_ arched an eyebrow as she cut Monotone off. “Daria, I can think of literally _no one_ who is more competent _or_ circumspect than Jodie Landon! Who could you possibly prefer?” This Jane was much taller than Monotone— _no, Daria_ —with jet-black hair in an asymmetrical bob, and her bright red lipstick stood out starkly against her pale skin.

“Literally _anyone_ we didn’t go to high school with!” Daria was clearly unmollified, and she tapped a leather-booted foot crossly. “But no. Of course. We move halfway across the world for a _dream_ journalism job, and then my plumbing decides to go berserk. And who is waiting for me with open arms and an open speculum but _Jodie Landon?_ It’s some kind of cosmic payback for being too ironic.”

_Hm, so they and Dr. Landon go way back?_ Catalina felt rather guilty for eavesdropping, but she was too curious to stop. Just then, alas, her name was called, and she and Anna (who’d _insisted_ on coming into the exam room, for some reason) got up and followed the intake nurse.

_Well. At least we can put end to this ridiculous panic._

____

To Catalina’s intense irritation, however, when she recited her symptoms, Dr. Landon seemed deeply concerned.

“How consistent has the bleeding been?”

“Pretty consistent, I suppose.” _Why is she furrowing her brow like that?_

“For how long?”

“About a month.”

“Hmm.” ( _Is that a good “hmm” or not?_ Catalina wondered.) Dr. Landon scribbled something on her notepad. “Have you had any other symptoms of note?”

“Not really—” Catalina began, when Anna cleared her throat significantly. “I _did_ have a very heavy and painful period or two a few months ago, but I’ve always been irregular.”

Dr. Landon was looking _very_ worried indeed now. She glanced at her notes again. “And you’ve lost a good ten pounds. I have to say I don’t like the sound of that at all, Catalina.”

“Oh?” She wasn’t sure why she asked; she didn’t really want to hear Dr. Landon’s elaboration.

“I’m referring you for a transvaginal ultrasound and an endometrial biopsy as soon as possible. Ideally in the next few days.”

“And why would you be doing that?” She felt like the bottom was going to drop out of her stomach any moment.

“Your symptoms have two possible explanations. You could have fibroids—uterine growths, which are painful and can have unpleasant complications, but which are usually benign. But I’m concerned that what you describe is actually very consistent with endometrial cancer.”

“What?” Catalina knew that this was precisely what everyone else had been worried about, but hearing it from Dr. Landon’s mouth was still a shock. She could distantly hear her continuing—“if that’s the case, the prognosis is usually very good if it’s caught early, which is why I’d like to get a diagnosis one way or the other as soon as possible”—but the room was starting to spin, and all of a sudden she was overwhelmingly nauseous.

Anna, fortunately, noticed her unsteadiness right away and had the presence of mind to lunge for a basin and hand it to her before she lost the contents of her stomach.

___

Anna confirmed the date (two days from now) of Catalina’s biopsy, and then helped her into the nearest bathroom. After rinsing her mouth out, splashing water onto her face, and accepting Anna’s offer of a drink from her own water bottle, she felt steady enough to make her way back to the car.

Mercifully, Anna didn’t try to force a conversation on the ride home.

Once they’d arrived back home and she’d rested enough that she felt up to it, she walked quickly away from the house and toward a nearby park, telling herself that the watering of her eyes was just from leaning sharply into the stinging November wind. She wasn’t feeling amazing, but she ignored it, gritting her teeth through a worsening side stitch and not stopping until she’d reached a familiar clearing, where she doubled over, gasping.

She and this clearing had a history. Early on, shortly after they’d all come back, she’d wound up here when, after learning about Mary’s short reign, the persecutions and killings she’d ordered, and then her painful and humiliating death, she’d gone for another long and painfully brisk walk. This place had felt isolated enough for her to scream, to rage at and weep for the ghost of her daughter that she’d conjured in her mind. Since then, she’d always come here when she needed to let her guard down, to allow the frightened child-bride—or the imprisoned teenage widow, or the betrayed Queen and grieving mother, or the dying woman racked with chest pains and afflicting herself with a hairshirt—who all still lived inside her the chance to pour out their troubles free of scrutiny.

Now, though, it was none of those women (or maybe all of them) who cried out to the bare trees. It was Catalina as she was now, a stranger to this land twice over, here in the twenty-first century and _still_ having to face the same illness she’d died of before. Except this time it was attacking a different organ.

_It was supposed to be my heart! Not this!_

_But then again,_ a treacherous little voice in her head whispered, _isn’t it just getting you where you failed last time around?_

_Go to hell!_ She dropped to her knees and screamed at the sky, hands balled up in tight fists. _This new life was my chance to be free of marriage, coupledom, and reproductive nonsense!_

_Yes, now you’re just playing the whore with your lady in waiting,_ the voice whispered. _Last time you couldn’t do your duty. This time, you_ wouldn’t.

_What bloody duty?!_ she shrieked, internally. _It’s a different world! I have no husband, no throne, and the kingdom doesn’t need the fruit of my womb! And anyway I_ did _bear an heir to the throne, even if my husband was a megalomaniac whose cruelty turned her into a killer!_

Even as she thought this, she was overcome by the memory of her daughter—still a bare teenager when she had last been able to see her. She thought about what she’d learned of her final illness—how she’d been so sure she’d conceived an heir to secure the dynasty, only to come to the slow and horrifying realization that what she carried was, instead, devouring her from the inside out.

She wondered what the first signs had been. _Did it start like this for Mary?_

_Mary._ It was all too much, and she crumpled, keening, to the ground.

After she’d sat there for a while, sobbing herself hoarse, it hit her that the cold of the earth had seeped into her bones. She climbed stiffly to her feet, turning to make her way back to the house, and quickly realized that in addition to being chilled, she was woozy and her knees ached. And that she’d bled through her leggings.

_I can’t walk all the way home like this._

She fumbled for her phone in the pocket of her jacket, and dialed. It rang several times and she felt her throat close, despairing of an answer before she finally heard a voice in her ear.

“Hello? Lina?...Lina, are you there? Are you all right?”

She finally managed to choke out a reply. “Anne? I walked out to the clearing and…I’m… too tired to walk back. Can you come get me?”

Anne’s voice at the other end of the line was so warm and gentle she almost couldn’t bear it. “Just hold on, _ma reine du troupeau._ I’ll be right over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone enjoyed the brief visit from Daria Morgendorffer and Jane Lane. We'll see them again, a bit more substantially, in a subsequent chapter.
> 
> I've decided one of Kitty's jobs in this universe is to be the messenger for several of my random side interests. Hence why she's gotten into all things Mitford sisters. (And, incidentally, Jessica Mitford's "The American Way of Death"--a muckraking book that gleefully skewers the mortuary and funeral industries--is JUST as funny as Kitty says it is).
> 
> That Kitty is One Of Us is established in "Love and Work" (whose universe mostly but not COMPLETELY overlaps with "These Fragile Bodies," mainly because I wrote it before I decided that Aramour made more sense as FWB than as a conventional couple). This is the first we've heard that she may have written any RPF, however. (Tsk, Kitty, tsk).
> 
> Catalina calling Anne at the very end of the chapter, and Anne's response, is a direct callback to when the converse happened at the end of chapter 2 of Gynaikeia.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mainly a fluffy interlude, in which the author realizes she has not yet written any food porn for this fandom. And THAT really won’t do.
> 
> Or, in which Anne is a savant of flavor and uses her culinary powers for good.
> 
> (I’ve been rereading Ruth Reichl’s memoirs, can you tell?)

When they got back to the house Catalina felt almost too exhausted to get out of the car. Her bloody leggings felt impossibly clammy against her skin, and she really didn’t want to move her legs and make the feeling worse. She pursed her lips, determined to push past the discomfort, and leaned forward so she could brace against the dashboard to lever herself up. In spite of everything, she was surprised at how unsteady she felt. She shivered and leaned against the car, cringing with embarrassment when she saw a smear of blood on the seat.

She felt Anne, who must have come around to the passenger’s side, put an arm around her shoulders and gently begin to propel her towards the house. She hung back.

“I’ve got to clean—”

“You will do no such thing.”

“Anne, please. I can’t have you cleaning up my bodily fluids. It’s humiliating.”

“You’re exhausted and chilled. The only thing you’ll be doing is taking quite a lot of ibuprofen and getting into a bath.”

“It was my turn to make dinner—”

“Are you out of your damn mind?”

“I still have responsibilities,” Catalina protested weakly, but she let Anne guide her on.

“You,” Anne repeated, “will be getting into a hot bath. And while you are soaking, _I_ will make _you_ dinner.”

“And knowing you,” Catalina grumbled, “by the time I’m out of my bath you’ll only just have gotten around to lighting the bloody stove—”

She knew the comment was unworthy of either of them, but it wasn’t untrue. Anne was, in fact, an absolutely brilliant cook. She had a sixth sense for flavor—she’d dream up combinations that never should have worked but somehow were mind-blowingly delicious— her knife skills were second to none, and she could improvise a recipe on the spot and have it turn out brilliantly. Alas, she had absolutely no sense of timing, to the point where even a simple pasta dish could take her over an hour—either because she’d keep forgetting to boil the water, or lose track of what she was doing in the middle of chopping garlic, or because she’d decide at the last minute that she absolutely _needed_ to add an ingredient that might be in the very back of the refrigerator or required some complicated preparation. And, of course, by the time she was finished, every dish in the kitchen was dirty (or so, at least, it seemed to whichever poor soul happened to be on dish duty that night). All this meant that while everyone eagerly anticipated the nights Anne was to cook, they had to be thoughtfully scheduled for days when they had no other evening commitments.

Fortunately Anne didn’t seem to take offense at her remark, instead shrugging in acknowledgement. “Well, I’ll be sure you have a snack if you end up having to wait.”

Something occurred to Catalina. “Hold on. I thought I was the only one off from the show tonight?”

“I called in a swing as soon as I got off the phone with you.”

“Anne—”

“ _Lina_. It was painfully obvious from how you sounded you were in no condition to spend the evening alone.”

“I don’t want anyone put out on my behalf!”

“Lina.” Anne stopped in her tracks and narrowed her eyes at her. “ _Do_ shut up. You are exhausted, chilled, and unwell, and you have just received rather distressing news. You _will,_ for once in your life, allow the rest of us to care for you for a change.”

Catalina knew as well as anyone that when Anne was set on something like this, she simply refused to brook dissent or admit impediments, so she sighed and bowed to the inevitable. And then, of course, Anne had to go and chip in one more time:

“And besides, if your goddaughter _were_ to find out I let you lift a single finger tonight, I don’t think she’d ever let me see her naked again.”

She could only sputter indignantly.

____

An hour later, when Catalina got out of the bath Anne had drawn her and carefully made her way toward the kitchen, the delicious aroma of brown butter and caramelizing shallots that met her at the bottom of the stairs made her realize she was absolutely ravenous. She stopped briefly at the threshold of the kitchen, watching with fascination as Anne deftly reduced a pile of carrots into a precise brunoise and crumbled what looked like feta cheese into a ramekin, before padding over to the table and gingerly sitting down.

Anne turned around when she heard the chair scrape. “Lina! Let me get you some tea! And I think there are still some of the biscotti Jane made on Friday…” She set her knife down and washed her hands before reheating the kettle and brewing a mug of ginger tea. “One spoon of honey, yes?” At Catalina’s nod she finished dressing the tea, set some of Jane’s chocolate biscotti (laden with figs and almonds) on a plate and brought them over to her. “This should take the edge off. Sit tight—dinner should be ready in maybe twenty minutes.”

Catalina sipped at the tea and nibbled at the biscotti, feeling somewhat restored as she did so, while she continued to watch Anne work. The woman really was a virtuoso in the kitchen, and her mouth watered as the aromas coming from the stove grew more layered and complex. The amazing smells, the warmth of the tea, and the pleasure of watching Anne lose herself in something she excelled at almost— _almost—_ chased away the dread and disbelief from earlier in the day.

_I could get used to being looked after. Could. I’d better not get_ too _used to it. People depend on me here._

_God. What’s going to happen to all of them if I’m out of commission for a while? What if I_ never _get better?_

_If I can’t do my job—if I can’t hold everyone together anymore, will_ they _throw me away, too?_

And just like that, the dread was back. Or it _would_ have come back in force if Anne hadn’t at that very moment cheerily announced that dinner was served and set a shallow bowl in front of her that was so fragrant it snapped her out of her ruminations entirely.

The dish—which appeared to be pearl couscous done in some sort of light sauce— was visually stunning, studded as it was with brilliant orange carrots, paler orange apricots, some deep red fruit, and creamy feta, and strewn with pine nuts, bright green dill and some kind of wine-colored syrup—maybe pomegranate molasses, she thought. She took a bite and suddenly her mouth was filled with fireworks. The dish was savory, sweet, and tart all at once, and she tasted the nutty flavor of sherry, the earthiness of coriander seed, and the shallots she’d smelt earlier at the backbone of it. The couscous itself was _al dente_ —yielding to her teeth at first and then springing back pleasingly at the center—and tasted of toasted grain, and then there were sweet-tart bursts of apricot and zings of an even tarter fruit. There was the bite of ginger, the mouth-coating richness of the feta and the pine nuts, some sort of exquisite bright and sour funk, and then the green freshness of the dill brought it all together.

_Dios mio, she’s talented_. It was so good that she was able to lose herself in the sensations of it, and by the time she paused she looked to realize her helping was mostly gone.

"My goodness, I’m sorry—”

“Lina, for fuck’s sake, don’t be!”

Catalina cleared her throat and took a sip of water. “Thank you so much, Anne. This was phenomenal.” She paused. “What were those very tart red berries?”

“Barberries. They’re used a lot in Persian cooking. Aren’t they good? And they look so pretty in the dish.”

“And that sort of funkier sour flavor? Citrusy, but deeper?”

“Preserved lemon! That’s from Maghrebi cuisine. I make them myself; they’re dead easy and they’re fantastic in just about everything.”

“It’s a _gorgeous_ flavor.” She sighed. “Really, thank you. I know I don’t always make looking after me easy.”

“It’s the absolute least I could do.” Anne waved her hand dismissively, then set her fork down and looked at Catalina. “So. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I mean, I probably have cancer after all. It’s terrifying, it’s in a body part I wasn’t expecting, it brings back horrible thoughts about what Mary must have gone through during her last illness, _which I wasn’t there for,_ on account of having my uterus fail me several times already, having been discarded like bloody linens, and then having _died of cancer._ What more is there to say?”

“I don’t know, Lina, that sounds like plenty to deal with already.” Anne chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of her own food. “You and I both have some experience with how a malfunctioning uterus can lead to disaster—and with how _that_ complex trauma can lead to all sorts of delightful and unexpected reactions in this life. Grappling with the prospect of having cancer is hard enough, especially since you’ve died of it once already, and I imagine Anna will be more helpful to talk to there. But it being your uterus is an extra level of terrifying bullshit—and God, I’m so sorry— _and_ I get that maybe a little more.”

She took a swig of water and then fixed Catalina with a no-nonsense _look._ “I’ve got two things to say. First, I know that Mary is still a somewhat fraught topic between us for reasons that are fully my fault, _but_ I do understand what it’s like to grieve for a daughter whose adult life you didn’t get to see, and if you want to talk about her I _am_ willing to listen.” She reached across the table for Catalina’s hand, and even though she’d intended otherwise, Catalina found she didn’t want to refuse the gesture after all. Anne squeezed her hand, and she squeezed it back.

“Second,” Anne was continuing, “know this: no matter what happens, nobody is going to turn you out or throw you away.”

Catalina blanched. “How—?”

“Lina _, please._ Figuring out _that’s_ what you’re afraid of is hardly systematic theology.” She squeezed her hand again. “There are simply not enough words in English, French, Spanish, German, or Latin—have I missed anyone?—to express how much and how deeply we all love you. Your value isn’t in what you can or can’t produce for us or anyone else. No matter what happens, we will between us make sure you get whatever you need.”

“How can I trust you’ll really do that if it comes down to it? End stage cancer isn’t pretty, I promise you. There’s pain, and screaming, and delirium, and incontinence. You really want to deal with that?”

“Want? Of course not. No one does. But if it comes to that—God forbid, because we have no intention of losing you—we _will._ ”

Anne, Catalina saw, was once again wearing one of her “do _not_ contradict me” expressions. And so, while she still felt tremendous doubt, when it threatened to overwhelm her she pulled up the mental image of Anne, face set, arms crossed over her chest. Or of Anna, leaning implacably against her doorframe, or of Kitty enthusiastically telling her stories when she felt ill and perhaps wasn’t hiding it as well as she’d thought. Or of Jane, confronting her with fear and love and fire in her eyes.

And when, later that night, Cathy appeared at her bedside, clutching Iris the plush puffin and whispering “ _Madrina?_ ” in a quavering voice, Catalina wordlessly pushed aside the covers. And when Cathy crawled in beside her and, after a moment’s hesitation burrowed up close to her, Catalina put her arms around her goddaughter and was startled to find herself clinging to the younger woman for dear life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anne in the kitchen is basically me in the kitchen. The couscous Anne makes is a dish I more or less made up on the fly and cook on a pretty regular basis. Yes, I am describing my own cooking in glowing terms in my fic. Yes, I AM in fact that good. Sorry not sorry, etc.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catalina receives a conclusive diagnosis, faces the prospect of major surgery, and meditates on what it means to have lived with the consequences of multiple pregnancies.
> 
> And quite literally stumbles upon a familiar face--or rather, a familiar pair of boots--in the clinic's courtyard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN for a memory of quotidian cruelty from Henry, as well as a brief description of an encounter that is, depending on how you read it, either bad, inconsiderate sex or marital rape.
> 
> Points for anyone who figures out who the latest medical provider cameo is! Even if it does date me a bit...

After the ordeal of Catalina’s appointment with Dr. Landon, it was almost anticlimactic when the results of the ultrasound and biopsy confirmed that she did, indeed, have endometrial cancer.

“Let’s get you the facts,” said the surgeon—a young woman who reminded Catalina of Cathy in both appearance and mannerisms, and who’d introduced herself as Dr. Franklin—during her pre-operative consultation. (She hadn’t quite been able to place how she felt about this—the resemblance was just a bit uncanny, and when the woman had first entered the room and introduced herself, she couldn’t help but be vividly reminded of Cathy’s persistent, worried interrogation and the terror that lay just beneath its surface. As the appointment went on, though, she found herself warming to Dr. Franklin, who seemed like her goddaughter not only because of her curls and skin tone but also because of her curiosity, her honesty, and unadorned competence.

She didn’t fully love the thought of someone so like Cathy having to take her life in her hands. But if it was necessary, she decided, she could take comfort in the fact that this woman clearly knew what she was doing, and in her kindness—which, if not quite _effusive,_ was nevertheless deep-rooted and plainly present).

Dr. Franklin was continuing. “We think it’s very early stage, but we won’t know for certain until we do the pathology. So we’re recommending a total hysterectomy—that is, completely removing your uterus, cervix, and fallopian tubes, and possibly one or both of your ovaries. After we do the surgery and the pathology, we’ll know more about how far it’s gotten and whether it makes sense to go ahead with any adjuvant therapies, although it’s highly likely we’ll recommend some localized radiation therapy at the very least.”

Anne and Anna had both insisted on accompanying her, both taking turns asking questions and Anna taking notes (Anne’s notetaking skills were, to put it gently, inconsistent; her notes ranged from mostly workable on a good day to consisting of three vaguely topical sentence fragments, half a vulgar rondolet, and several drawings of kangaroos with eyestalks, wings, and boxing gloves on a bad one). At this pronouncement they both glanced anxiously at Catalina, as though they feared her reaction.

Catalina, however, had felt a strange calm descend on her from the moment the surgeon had uttered the word “hysterectomy.” She’d have to interrogate this later, she decided; for now she intended to take full advantage.

“What can I expect from the surgery?” she asked, voice low and even. “What complications should I be concerned about?”

“Well, because we want to make sure it hasn’t progressed, we’ll want to do a traditional abdominal incision so that we can get a good look around. That will mean a longer surgery, with its attendant risks, and it will mean a longer and more painful recovery period. However, the long-term complications of open-abdomen surgery aren’t any worse than with vaginal or laparoscopic hysterectomies.”

“And those are?”

“Well, if we end up removing your ovaries it will induce immediate menopause, so you’ll likely experience the standard symptoms of that—hot flashes, sweats, vaginal dryness, sleep disturbances. We can discuss options for hormone replacement therapy for that, if you’d like. We’ll also want to monitor your bone density more aggressively, as well as your cardiovascular health—”

Anne broke in. “What about physical therapy for her pelvic floor? What options does she have there?”

Anna looked surprised. “Had that come up? It hadn’t even occurred to me.”

Anne and Catalina exchanged a significant glance. “You were lucky enough to escape having to deal with multiple pregnancies and miscarriages. Lina and I…weren’t, and it can really tear you up. Of course we didn’t properly understand _why_ back then, but it all puts a lot of strain on the muscles that hold all your pelvic organs together, including the ones that help with bladder control. Obviously this time around we haven’t been pregnant, but sometimes there are…echoes, like with the scars Kitty and I have. And there are similar risks with hysterectomy—I read about it. And now we know that there are physical therapy techniques that can help—except most people still don’t get them unless they _know_ about it! So I want to be sure that Catalina knows that’s an option.”

(Catalina remembered how horrified she’d been—it must have been sometime after Young Henry’s birth, but before he’d taken ill and died, or she didn’t think she’d have had anything to laugh _about_ —when one of her ladies had said something hilariously cutting about the French envoy, and she’d laughed heartily and then felt a sudden gush between her legs. No one had noticed, of course—there hadn’t been _that_ much of it, and anyway she’d been seated, the layers of skirts they all wore absorbed everything before it could show, and the scents they wore and the frequency with which everyone changed undergarments anyway dealt with any odor. But oh, _she’d_ noticed, and she knew the laundry maids would, too…

At first it didn’t happen terribly often, and she found that if she were careful not to drink too much, and to clench when the wittier members of court looked as though they might open their mouths, it wasn’t much of a problem. But then there were more pregnancies, more miscarriages, more births—for there _were_ other live births, even if Mary was the only one to survive infancy—and each time the leaks became just a bit more frequent, until eventually she couldn’t hide matters from the ladies who dressed her, and then gossip began to get out, as it always did, and soon Henry began to regard her with barely-concealed disgust…)

Dr. Franklin, meanwhile, was nodding. “I _was_ getting there, I promise. We can absolutely schedule a post-operative consultation with a perineologist and arrange for the appropriate physical therapy. If, of course you’d like that?”

(She thought of the last time Henry had come to her bed. She hadn’t been expecting him, she hadn’t been to the close stool, she was tired and anxious, and when he’d climbed on top of her the pressure had been too much and she’d lost control. She could still see the disgust on his face, and, too, the flush of shame—for she hadn’t missed how hard he became when it happened. He’d taken her roughly, never once looking at her, and then rolled off and stalked away without a word.)

She looked once more at Anne, and then at Dr. Franklin. “Absolutely, yes.”

___

Catalina had an hour between her consultation with Dr. Franklin and her appointment with the radiologist, and she had wanted some time to herself, so she’d walked out into the courtyard to clear her head.

She tried to parse the strange calm that had come over her as soon as Dr. Franklin had uttered the word “hysterectomy.” It seemed as though she should feel far more panicked—she had cancer, after all, and was now facing major surgery and the loss of a major organ. More than that, she was facing the final, unquestionable confirmation that she would never, ever, bear a son who would survive infancy (not that she _wanted_ to bear _any_ children in this life, but after the consequences of having failed to provide an heir in her last life, she was still sometimes irrationally anxious about it).

_So why do I feel as though a weight has been lifted?_

She was so lost in her thoughts as she paced around the courtyard that she utterly failed to notice a pair of well-worn Doc Martens protruding into her path—Doc Martens whose owner was, as it happened, also too consumed in her own thoughts to notice that someone else was about to walk right into her.

When Catalina went sprawling onto the pavement and caught her breath and looked up, she was quite surprised to see Monotone from Dr. Landon’s waiting room looking down at her, a stricken expression creeping across her wan face.

She was even more surprised when Monotone, in what Catalina suspected was a completely uncharacteristic reaction, burst into tears.


End file.
